Craving Neverland
by January Rose
Summary: More then ever, though, she wishes for him. The boy who has those eyes, enchanting and all consuming, and that mouth that never leaves its twist of a smirk. She wishes he would make her believe.


4

**Craving Neverland**

_Marie-Eve Reid_

She's always liked them dark, with blackened hair and the vibrant eyes that seemed to fuck you as their eyes licked across your body. She sits on her bed at night and dreams of boys who wouldn't treat her softly, who would throw her against a wall, and make her bruise and ache and long for more. She had never craved an innocent love.

She believes in the devil and that hate was far more powerful then love, and pretends she doesn't in the darkest hours of time, where night and day are separate completely. Despite all this she still craves a happy ending. Beyond all, though, she believed in the power of daydreams. Of closing your eyes as tight as they go and yearning body, mind and soul for Neverland.

Now, this didn't mean she thought it actually got you anywhere. No, this was a mental game she plays. She dreams of the most ostentatious scenario that her mind can possibly create, before designing the exact configuration of events in her head, and smirking the entire time through. She loves that part the most.

When she was little these mental theatre productions were simple affairs of glitz and gold, but now the glitz is gone and the gold has come undone. It's tarnished. Now she believes that the monsters win and the princess gets gobbled in the adventure and events, with the final scenes including the death of the prince, the only remainder a broken and bloody corpse, with beauty lost and the very much alive dragon, leering at his proof of victory. She finds it good for the soul.

More then ever, though, she wishes for him. The boy who has those eyes, enchanting and all consuming, and that mouth that never leaves its twist of a smirk. She has a fascination with those lips and that configuration. She thinks of them constantly, of their shape and just exactly how they pull and more. She also thinks about what she would do with them if they were hers, the tearing and bleeding that would be inflicted upon them, all on the alter of a feeling she does not believe in. She wants him to make her believe.

Our story starts in February, a month that she hates. Nothing good happens in February, it never has and it never will. The entire month felt like ice in her veins, like the weather from outside had crept into her soul and was making its stealthy progression towards her chest, to wrap its tendrils of what felt like death around her heart. This was the month she wasted away to nothing, every single year. Nothing good can come of February.

She's at the lighthouse when it happened, where our story unfolds in the very beginnings of darkness. The light on top of the building flashed around, swathing her in light that could almost warm the winter day, and then it was gone again. When the light returns he's standing there, in front of her.

She shivered as darkness surrounded them, despite the heat of the night. Whispers of warm wind blew across her skin and attempted to fix the damage that couldn't be undone. The cold and damp, you see, was in her soul. Her very being was infected, with no hopes of recovery. Recovery must be wanted, after all.

That's what she tells herself as the light comes back. It is only for a moment, but a moment is enough. She sees his eyes and she breaks, a million little pieces littered on the ground, everywhere and in everything. She never could resist those eyes. Her knees would be weak, she knew, if she would only let them, weak in that picture-perfect, movie magic way that has never had anything to do with her life. She's not that girl. She's not. Now she only has to believe her own words and the deed will be sealed and done. She only has to believe what her heart tells her is a lie. Her lips twist. Easy.

The light comes again, and the eyes are back, wiping away her defiance once more. She's putty in his hands, his to meld and play with like a marionette or doll, and the self-satisfied smile, flickering on and off like the light, tells her he knows. That's the worst part. He knows. He knows that all her hatred is a barely possible act, and that one kiss and she's his. She wonders if she wants the kiss to come.

The blackness is back, strands of it wrapping around them, driving him from her sight. She can think clearly when he's gone. Out of sight, and out of mind, she chants silently, the words a lie. They're dead and meaning less, and tonight the lie won't take. Tonight, tonight, she can't convince herself to believe them. Tonight she's his if he steps a little closer. The final reckoning is upon her, and she is finding her defenses wanting. She is finding herself lonely. She doesn't want that anymore. She's sick of being strong. She's sick of the solitary existence such strength inevitably brings. She doesn't want to be alone anymore. Even the darkness won't save her tonight.

When the light next comes back, he's ready for her, those eyes twinkling in a way she could never refuse. She'd be his willing slave, no restraints required, if he would only ask. She'd do a lot on his whim alone. This scares her, power always has. She doesn't want to be anyone's; she's never been into true love and forever, until moments before now. The dragon is now dying, the prince standing triumphant. She wants to squash him, but she no longer can. She doesn't understand the reasons people pledge themselves to forever, as if love isn't such as fickle thing. There, she's allowed herself to think it. Love. That's her culprit, she knows, the reason for her bending and breaking at his feet.

Love. A shiver runs through her, beginning in her spine and spawning. She wraps her arms around herself, wishing they were his. The warm wind comes again as the light flickers then dies once more. She wishes her conviction would die with it, and then she could begin her purging. If you lock something away, far enough away, then it can't get you. She knows this is not a possibility, but wishes it all the same. Mourns it, even. She wonders when she became this, wonders if there has ever been a return from this place. Hopes she can be the first. Knows that this can never happen, and then lets the dream die away. This kind of practical has always been her way; she's never bothered with self-delusion. What's the point?

The light comes back, and it's brighter now, without rhyme or reason. She can see more then his outline and a glow of his eyes, a glow that seemed to come from within him, himself. Goodness, some might call it. She's always considered it to be a type of defiance before now uncharted, almost the unexplained willfulness never lost from childhood. Now she knew she was making things up. She was going to go crazy, standing on this spot, yet she couldn't seem to wrench herself away. They were standing stuck in a stalemate that had to be broken.

She could hear distant music; that was how silent the night was. It was a single instrument, with no voice in accompaniment and nothing else disturbing it. I came from an open car window, or perhaps a house and swirled about, mournful and slow. It was death music, she thought distantly. It was beautiful, too.

She still hated it. The part of her that he had already conquered hated it in a way that she couldn't express. Even the part of her that was screaming no with all its might against him, was fighting the music too, because she knew that it was true. This was an end. Whether she walked away from tonight with a romance or a broken heart, it would be an end. He had made that clear. She had to make a choice, yes or no, fight or flight, love or hate. She had to make it tonight.

They had been standing there for what seemed like ever after, but she knew that happy endings were not on the menu. Even love would not solve their lives, and no castle refuge would ever appear to protect them from the world. And yet they stood there, maybe a foot between them, and this was it. He looked at her with that something that always seemed to be within his eyes when he looked at her, something she could never identify. It always made her fell warm, though, except tonight. Tonight it invited the cold, and she is still standing here, staring straight back. She wishes something would break the silence of the mournful music, anything to save her from this night. She knows nothing will.

His voice breaks it. Finally. Her name has never sounded so good, and she looks at him with a hunger for more. Nothing comes. That is all he says, and somehow it means more. A million things come from his words, and he has said nothing. A name, her name. She does the only thing she can think of.

Her voice nearly cracks from nerves and she's never felt so scared in all her life. She needs an ending, or an answer. She's about to do something she is wholeheartedly against. She's never been one to be weak, or ask for help from another. She blames him for driving her so far. "What…" her voice dies before more words can leave her mouth. It might have been a good thing; she doesn't know what she would say, anyhow.

He looks at her with a range of emotions contorting his face. He opened his mouth several times only to shut it moments later without making a sound. He finally just looked at her. It was a deep look, soul searching and long. She does the only thing she can think of. She runs. It's February so this cannot be true or real or anything that could make her wishes come true. She has no choice. It's not hers to have. And so she runs.

_Close your eyes and yearn for Neverland._


End file.
